


the architecture of loss

by ophvelias



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Light Angst, The Framework Universe (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 17:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11765028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophvelias/pseuds/ophvelias
Summary: Twenty seven hours and eighty five thousand dollars later, she’s glancing at an envelope on her desk, thick with fake documents and a dreadful kind of anticipation.





	the architecture of loss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plinys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/gifts).



> So this got. Lengthy. (This is what happens when I try to plot.)
> 
> Set in Inhuman Baby Verse. Featuring Lance Hunter, purveyor of illegal documents, and Grant Ward, the good friend.
> 
> Title from Warsan Shire's poem "Haiku on missing."

Ophelia watches as Leopold stands up, smooths a hand down his suit jacket, and moves to cross the room, summoned into his office by the shrill ringing of the phone. Taking advantage of her husband’s momentary distraction, she reaches for the tablet on the coffee table, the screen glowing to life as she unlocks it.

She casts a quick glance behind her shoulder, Leopold’s voice distant and distorted across the hall, before turning back to the tablet. Pulling up a browser window, she slides her fingers across the keyboard, typing in the name Ward had given her. A beat, and she’s looking at the search results for one _Richie H._

The Hydra database doesn’t offer much to go on, implying that this Richie, whoever he may be, knows how to stay off their radar. She hadn’t expect anything less from Ward’s contact, one he’d fervently vouched for.

Surprisingly, the online browser yields better results. There’s one hit that seems legitimate, spawning a minimalist website and matching the Philadelphia address Ward had mentioned. The name listed is different though, an Amadeus as opposed to a Richie. There’s no phone number or even email given, only the address and a zip code, which Ophelia saves on her phone before turning her attention back to the tablet, fingers dancing across the screen to delete the browser history. She powers down the tablet and slides it back onto the coffee table just as Leopold falls silent.

Ophelia re-assumes her previous position, hands resting lightly on her lap, listening to the sounds of her husband’s footsteps as he crosses the penthouse, joining her in the living room moments later.

Silence stretches on in the space between them, in this house that’s not a home.

They don’t speak.

They never do anymore, not properly, not outside of the occasional perfunctory courtesy; of the necessary conversations required to cohesively run Hydra. There’s too much hurt and suspicion and anger between them for anything more than that — there’s nothing but the pinched corners of Leopold’s mouth and the wide stretch of reproach that sits behind his eyes.

Ophelia takes her time, finishing her cup of coffee as she absentmindedly flicks through a magazine, not caring for the content of the glossy pages. Still, it’s easier than looking elsewhere, than looking up and meeting her husband’s gaze.

And — _husband._ Something like laughter bubbles in Ophelia’s chest, painfully tugging at her lungs and catching in her throat, desperate and hysterical.

She glances down at the ring, sitting heavy and oppressive on her finger, feeling less like a promise and more like an obligation.

Ophelia uncurls on the sofa, pushing herself to her feet when the ache in her chest becomes too sharp, too difficult to breathe around, and she’s filled with a sudden longing to be as far away from here, from him, as possible.

She doesn’t miss the way Leopold tilts his head in her direction. He doesn’t move, rooted to the spot by the vast windows that overlook the city, hands in his pockets.

“Heading out?” He asks with a strained kind of indifference.

“I have a few errands to run.” Ophelia answers, deliberately vague and nondescript as she shrugs on her beige trenchcoat. She pauses to fish a set of car keys out of their designated glass display, careful to pick those belonging to one of their less conspicuous cars.

It gets easier to breathe once she’s in the car, engine purring beneath her as she pulls out of the underground parking lot. Still, her stomach twists with something like nerves, skin itching at the thought that he’s watching her as the sleek black Audi emerges out of the darkness and glides across the bridge.

 

 

Ophelia pulls up outside a simple red-brick building in Center City and idles for a moment. It’s a decent neighborhood but still urban enough that even one of their less extravagant cars looks downright outrageous among the others parked along the curb.

She cuts the engine and steps out of the car, pocketing the keys and casting a glance at the plaque fixed on the outside of the building. Ophelia’s brows pull together in a frown, unsure as to why Ward would direct her to a small lawyer’s office in Philadelphia, but she moves towards the entrance regardless, deciding she trusts him enough to want to find out.

A head snaps up as she pushes the door open and steps inside — a man sits by what Ophelia assumes is meant to serve as the reception desk, dressed a little too casually to be the employee of a respectable law firm.

He sits up straighter when he catches sight of her, allowing her to get a clearer view of him. She takes in his appearance; the long, narrow face, the smooth dark skin, the mop of black hair, pushed back into a quiff. His brown eyes widen at the sight of her, whether out of fear or recognition, she can’t tell.

Ophelia takes advantage of his shock, mouth gaping but silent.

“I’m looking for Richie.” She says evenly, hoping to cut corners with the use of the alias Ward had supplied.

The stranger behind the desk blinks, a pained sort of expression crossing his face, as if he’s contemplating whether he should give Richie up or not. After a while he clearly figures she looks important enough to divulge information to, standing up and motioning for her to follow him.

She obediently trails behind him as he leads her through the office space and out past a double door onto a narrow corridor that looks like it should belong to a different building altogether, all linoleum and fluorescent lights and insulation pipes. He pauses outside a metal door, mouth twisting at the corners as he pushes it open.

Ophelia’s not sure what she’s expecting but — well.

There’s a man sitting in the middle of the small dark room, feet stretched across the wooden desk in front of him, a beer bottle sitting in his hand. He’s attractive in a rugged sort of way, everything from the hair to the beard to the t-shirt and jacket combo suggesting he’s no stranger to moral ambiguity. There’s an air of nonchalance about him, in the way he holds himself, like he’s seen everything and nothing can surprise him anymore.

“Idaho, mate, what—?” He drawls in a British accent, jerking in his chair when he catches sight of her. 

Ophelia is suddenly struck by how utterly outrageous she must look, standing there in a cashmere sweater-dress and high heels in a dark, dilapidated warehouse-turned-office space. The first man — Idaho, she amends — uses the momentary distraction as his cue to slip out, leaving Ophelia alone with Ward’s contact.

“Richie, right?” She asks, crossing the room and sliding into the seat across from him.

“Depends who’s asking.” He says, mistrust creasing his brow as he watches her, eyeing the silver briefcase she’d brought with her with interest, and taking a languid sip of his beer. 

The corners of Ophelia’s mouth lift into a smirk. She knows he knows who she is, outwardly at least. There isn’t a person in this country who wouldn’t recognize her face. Still, she appreciates the pretense.

“Let’s just say that Grant Ward is a mutual friend. Ring any bells?”

The man snorts incredulously around the top of the bottle. “Ward sent you here?” He asks.

Ophelia nods, eliciting another laugh from the stranger, sharp and mocking in a jarring kind of way.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, love, but don’t you have guys who do this sort of thing up in that big bad snakepit of yours at Hydra?”

Heaving a sigh, she rolls her eyes and crosses her legs under the desk.

“Right. Let’s try this again.” She suggests, extending a hand. “Ophelia.”

He raises an eyebrow but sets down his beer bottle and humors her all the same, hand meeting hers in a brief handshake.

“Hunter.” He says, licking his lips. “Lance, I mean.”

“Figures.” Ophelia murmurs, giving him a small smile. “Look, Ward says he trusts you and I trust Ward.”

There’s still a hint of uneasiness in his eyes when they settle on her face, but Ophelia can see that he’s willing to listen, and that’s good enough for her.

“What do you need?”

Relief floods the space between her ribs, tightness uncurling, and it’s liberating. Like maybe there’s still hope.

“Passport, birth certificate and citizen’s card.” She tells him, figuring Ward already has a sizeable stash of false documents himself.

Swallowing, she tries to ignore the burning irony of the fact that she, of all people, requires a forged _Hydra-issued_ ID card.

She’s sure Hunter must get a kick out of that, but she doesn’t look up to check his expression. Instead, she rummages through her wallet, pulling out a photograph and laying it flat on the desk.

It catches Hunter’s eye and he takes a moment to examine it, touching a finger to the face in front of him.

“She your kid?” He asks reflexively. It’s a stupid question in hindsight, unnecessary when the answer is so blatantly obvious. The resemblance is indisputable, Ophelia knows.

“Yeah.” She nods, throat tight.

“Sorry.” Hunter shakes his head, sliding the photograph back towards her. Whether he’s apologizing for prying or for her needing forged documentation for her own daughter, Ophelia isn’t sure. Either way, there’s a certain softness about his expression the next time she meets his gaze, one that wasn’t there before.

She feels tension in the pull of her shoulders, like maybe she’s mistaking kindness for pity. She clears her throat, diverting her attention to the scratch of pen on paper.

“And the uh, name?”

“Eleanor.” Ophelia supplies.

She’d had time to think about it on the drive from D.C. to Philadelphia and settled on this name in particular, deciding it was the most sensible choice.

Lyra seems like an okay nickname for Eleanor, she reasons — a bit of a stretch, maybe, but not impossible. It’s a good name, a safe name, simple and common enough not to arise suspicion, but close enough to Lyra’s own name for it not to be weird for her. And it has no personal ties to either one of them, making it more difficult to guess, just in case.

Ophelia’s teeth catch on her lip, an ache blossoming in her chest. She hates that it’s come to this — that she’s taking these precautions to keep Leopold from their daughter. Because he’d look for her, send his best agents to carry out a thorough and tireless search, of that she’s certain.

“Is there anything to go with that?” Hunter asks pointedly, effectively pulling Ophelia out of her momentary reverie.

“Isabelle.” She says. “Eleanor Isabelle.” Looks up and holds Hunter’s gaze.

There’s a spark of recognition in his eyes, a mutual understanding that passes between them. He nods, jaw clenched and throat tight, as she duly provides him with the rest of the required information.

“Well then.” He says, and there’s a sense of finality to his words as he sets the pen down. “I’ll see you in a week, love.”

Ophelia balks at that, panic erupting in the space between her ribs. She swallows around the tightness in her throat, trying to ignore the way her lungs suddenly feel heavy, like they’re filling up with water.

“A week?” She asks shakily, and it tastes like a clatter of porcelain in her mouth. Scenarios unfold inside her brain, unbidden, all the things that could go wrong in a week.

Ophelia shakes her head.

“That’s—that’s not going to work for me.” She says, shifting in her seat, resting the valley of her knuckles beneath her chin. “Is there anything I do to...put a rush on that? Say, twenty four hours.”

Hunter chokes at that, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, beer gurgling in his throat. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Twenty four hours?” He barks out a laugh. “Look, I know I’m good, but I’m not a bloody magician, sweetheart.”

The corners of Ophelia’s mouth twist in a smirk as the sole of her shoe presses against the briefcase under the desk, sliding it across the floor and bumping Hunter’s knee. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes light up.

“Money is no issue, I assure you, Mr. Hunter. Just name your price.”

 

 

Twenty seven hours and eighty five thousand dollars later, she’s glancing at an envelope on her desk, thick with fake documents and a dreadful kind of anticipation. Several stacks of cash lie next to it, neatly separated off into packages of ten thousand each. 

The pen sits heavy between her fingers and she closes her eyes against the way it feels like her heart is seeping from her chest.

Ophelia writes her daughter letters, one for every birthday she will miss, and slides them into white envelopes with the corresponding ages written in black marker. She can’t assure her that her father loves her, but she can remind her that her mother always will.

She heaves a sigh, long and deep and aching, before packing everything up and leaving the room.

Leopold says nothing as she brushes past him and heads for the door, and for that, at least, she’s grateful.

 

 

“How are you holding up?” Ward asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he moves to join her.

Ophelia shakes her head, a burst of laughter pushing past her lips.

“Living a double life is exhausting. I don’t know how you kept it up for so long.” She tells him.

It’s been little over a week and she’s already emotionally drained from all the lies she’s had to tell, pointedly avoiding Leopold’s gaze at every turn. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking, what assumptions he’s making in that too-bright brain of his, and she’s not sure she wants to.

Ward chuckles, and it’s nice, momentarily, to have someone there who understands.

“Is this the part where you tell me it gets easier with time? Because I don’t believe that.”

His mouth twists at the corners, but his eyes are still bright. “It doesn’t. But you get used to it.”

“Right.” Ophelia nods, looking away from him and back at her daughter on the other side of the glass. She’s talking animatedly with one of the other children the Resistance had brought in, a classmate of hers.

Ophelia tries to picture it then, living like this long term, and decides she can’t. Sometimes it feels like she’s barely holding the edges of herself together by sheer force of will, the determination to keep going, for Lyra.

Out of the corner of her eye she catches Ward’s gaze, the way he’s glancing ahead, straight at her daughter. Lyra must notice it too because her head snaps up, hair cascading down her shoulders. She grins, wide and bright and honest as she waves at him. Ward’s mouth stretches into a small smile, mirroring her motions as he waves back. Lyra watches them both for a moment longer before turning her attention back to her classmate. 

“Do you think he’d really—?” Ward asks, smile fading. Ophelia frowns, picking up on his thoughts.

“I don’t know.” She admits quietly. A chill runs down the length of her spine and she shivers, pressing her arms closer to her chest. “But I’m not willing to take that chance.”

There’s a laugh, and it sounds painful.

“I still love him, Ward.” Ophelia says, and it’s more vulnerable than it has any right to be. Bruised, somehow. “Even after everything.” She turns to him then, tension rolling through her shoulders. “Is that bad?” 

Ward’s smile is full of pity but his eyes shine with something like understanding.

“No. I don’t think it is.” A pause, and then, softly: “Hold onto that.”

Ophelia gives him a small nod. “Listen, Ward, I—” She swallows around the lump in her throat, laying a hand over his shoulder. “I need you to do something for me.”

His smile fades, concern creasing his brow.

“When—” Ophelia licks her lips. Amends. “If things get bad, run with her. Take her out of the state, out of the country, I don’t know.”

A pause, and then, softer: “You were our best agent. I’m sure you have ways of disappearing.” She smiles sadly, fingers pressed against the throbbing ache in her temple. “I know this is a lot to ask of you, but—” Ophelia starts, lip trembling.

“Hey.” Ward’s hands slide up her arms and settle on her shoulders. It’s nice, she thinks, being held like this. Like he’s steadying her. “I understand.” He swipes a thumb across her cheekbone, wiping away a tear she hadn’t noticed dripping down her face.

“I’ll do everything I can. I’ll keep her safe, okay?”

Ward pulls her into his arms and she makes no effort to resist, burying her face against his shoulder. He runs a hand down the length of her spine in a soothing motion, drawing a contented sigh from her lips.

He holds her like that for a lingering moment, bodies flush against each other, a heartbeat shared, and for the first time in a long time something like hope blossoms in her chest, warm and glowing and radiant like the sun.


End file.
